


Nix Archimedes and the Dashing Debutante

by rowaning



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Explosions, Fireworks, Heist, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Pyrotechnics, main focus is the OCs but peter and juno are there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29526300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowaning/pseuds/rowaning
Summary: The crew of the Carte Blanche is on a mission to steal the Blade right from under its owner's nose, during the biggest, most high-profile party Nix has ever seen.
Relationships: Nix Archimedes (Original Character)/Elspeth Bartholomew (Original Character)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	Nix Archimedes and the Dashing Debutante

**Author's Note:**

> Quick intro to the main character: Nix Archimedes is about 23 years old, nonbinary, uses they/them pronouns and the honorific "Mr.". Their left arm is partially cybernetic, and this fic doesn't contain any more details on that but future ones probably will. They are an engineer/mechanic and have been working with Buddy since some time before Juno joined the crew of the Carte Blanche.   
> For this heist they are using the alias 'Ariadne Desantis'

“This is ridiculous.”

I tug at the collar of my shirt. The tie is _clearly_ too tight, despite Rita’s assurances that she’d tied it properly. Hell, the entire outfit is too tight. It pulls at my shoulders when I move my arms and bunches at the knees when I walk. Rita had been insistent though: ‘That’s cause you ain’t standin’ right, Mistah Archimedes!’

Hmmph. Posture my ass, I’ll stand however I please. Although there is something to be said for how the cut of the suit forces me to keep my back straight. And how I kinda like looking almost as classy as Buddy or Ransom for once.

“Stop poking at it darling, I’d hate to see Rita’s hard work go to waste.”

There’s a hint of a smile in Buddy’s voice. I can hear it even through the crackle of the comms, and I scowl at it. The airy laugh I get in response tells me that Rita has successfully hacked into the cameras in the ballroom, and they’re watching me from the ship.

“I don’t mean the suit.” Not this time at least. “I mean this whole thing. What kind of rich asshole invites the pyrotechnicians they hired _to the event they were hired for??_ ”

“It’s just a formality. They graciously invite their event contractors to partake in the evening’s delights, we graciously accept and put on our nice faces, everyone has a lovely time and we get hired again next year.”

Buddy’s speech drips with the sort of amused irritation she usually reserves for Juno’s regular protestations.

“Obviously that makes more sense when it involves an actual event contractor group. But we do well to keep up appearances, don’t we Mr. Archimedes?”

Peter Ransom, cutting in from across the room. At least _he_ looks comfortable in his suit. He wears the thing like a second skin and glides around the room in heels no sensible pyro would ever wear on the job.

“Fine, fine. I get it, alright? But I’m not gonna pretend I enjoy being here. And hey, _Xavier_ , we do well to remember our aliases while milling about in enemy territory.”

I scan the room for Pete and direct my best ‘stubborn asshole’ grin at him. He raises an eyebrow and gives a nod, the closest anyone’ll ever get to a rise from him. I turn away and snag a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Probably shouldn’t be drinking on the job, as a thief or a pyrotechnician, but I refuse to act without some sort of extra compensation. _For emotional labour_ , I think as I take a swig. It’s fancy, presumably. I’ve never been able to tell the difference. Bubbly, vaguely fruity, not alcoholic enough to cause any real problems. Same as any other champagne, the tag doesn’t make much of a difference.

I mill around for a while, avoiding eye contact and snacking on the multitudes of hors d’oeurves. It’s not hard. Everyone here seems to know each other and they don’t know me, and they’re just as keen to avoid me as I am them. I catch a glance of Pete occasionally, laughing with a group of glamorous socialites over some joke I’m too far away to hear. He’s a natural at this ‘blending in’ thing. Unlike me.

* * *

I’m distracted by the shrimp platter when she approaches. That’s what I tell myself at least, after I turn around and nearly jump out of my shoes when I see another person standing so close to me, looking directly at me. She smiles, kind of like how Buddy smiles, in a way that makes you pretty sure there’s something underneath that you can’t quite make out. She’s got long auburn hair partially done up in a hairdo so elaborate I can’t even follow it. Her face is deceptively clear of obvious makeup, and it’s only the impossible smoothness and the hint of shade around her eyes that indicates anything other than bare skin. And those eyes, so blue and piercing and staring directly into mine as if they’re revelling in my discomfort. Her dress seems simple compared to the much flashier outfits surrounding us, but when she moves it reveals metallic glints of gold and silver woven into the black fabric creating a complex-and incredibly expensive-geometric pattern. She takes my glass with one hand and sips it daintily, and with the other puts two fingers under my chin and lifts my now-slack jaw.

“You’re the pyro.”

It’s a statement, not a question. It could’ve been an order, but the grammar wasn’t right. I’m still so stunned that one of these incredibly rich important people is looking at me, and now _talking_ to me, that I can only nod.

“You’re perfect. Dance with me.”

Okay, that one was a command. It’s jarring enough to snap me out of it and I stare at her with an entirely different kind of incredulity.

“Excuse me?” I say as I reflexively step back.

Her mask of a face shifts slightly, now displaying minor annoyance.

“I said, dance with me.”

She holds out her hand, clearly expecting me to take it. I continue staring.

“Wait, what? Why-nevermind. No, thank you.” I stammer, and step back again.

Deeper annoyance crosses her face, until it is replaced by a sly smile, as if she knows a secret I’m not in on. It’s gorgeous on her, and I hate it. She steps towards me, maintaining our previous closeness.

“Do you know who I am?” she asks.

It’s a pointed question, but she also sounds genuinely curious. Her face is vaguely familiar but I’ve been wandering this gala for the better part of an hour, I’ve seen a lot of faces. I just frown and slightly shake my head, afraid of the potential consequences of whatever could come out of my mouth.

There’s a crackle in my earpiece:

“Be careful, _Ariadne_. That’s Elspeth Bartholomew.”

Good ol’ Pete. Always helpful in a crisis. The name is familiar, but it takes a moment for all of the pieces to slide into place.

Elspeth Bartholomew.

Elspeth _Bartholomew_.

Shit.

Elspeth Bartholomew, daughter and only child of Andre Bartholomew, the multi-trillionaire political lobbyist and major stakeholder of the Board of Fresh Starts.

Specifically: Elspeth Bartholomew, who’s father has thrown a massive debutante ball for her, at his personal massive estate.

Specifically: the personal massive estate where Rita has hacked Pete, Juno and I into the security system as pyrotechnicians, that houses the ballroom I’m standing in right now, and where the vault that we’re robbing during the fireworks show is located.

 _That_ Elspeth Bartholomew.

 _Shit_.

The realization must show on my face, because Elspeth puts on a spectacular pout, as if someone’s ruined all her fun.

“Hm. Well, now will you dance with me?” Her hand is still outstretched.

“I haven’t got a choice, do I?” I carefully reach out and take it.

“Not today.”

We walk out onto the dance floor.

“I can’t dance.”

My last ditch effort to escape. A clear failure, as she places my hands on her hip and shoulder. I see her notice the stiffness of my left hand, but she doesn’t comment or make a face. Cybernetics may not be common, but I doubt I’ve got anything that could get through that mask.

“Don’t worry, I can make anyone look good.”

She smiles again, this time a self satisfied smirk, and leads me into an elegant waltz.

* * *

As we dance, her tone seems to shift. The mask doesn’t drop, but she sounds different. Less... controlled.

“What did you mean by that, ‘I’m perfect’?” I ask.

She raises an eyebrow at me and tilts her head.

“Look around you. What do you see?”

She spins me around and I scan the room.

“Posh people getting dangerously drunk.”

That earns me a laugh. God, even her laughter is beautiful. I think my heart might have skipped a beat, although that might just be because my balance is terrible.

“That’s certainly true, but it’s not all that’s going on. There’s patterns here. Politics. The way people move, who they speak to and what they say. It all projects a message for those who can understand it.”

She pulls away from me and twirls before bringing me close again.

“Including who they dance with.” I say, trying to grasp the bigger picture here.

“You catch on quick.” she replies, giving me a nod of approval.

“So why me? I’m not a part of this game of yours, I’m just here for the fireworks.”

“That’s exactly why.”

She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and sighs when I give her a look of confusion in return.

“Look. This is _my_ party. All eyes are on me, everyone here is analyzing my every move. I’m expected to take my father’s place one day and my actions here will prove my worth. I could make or break political alliances. If I dance with one ally but not another, they’ll suspect favouritism. If I dance with a rival, it’ll be open disruption of our social order and cause ripples throughout the political sphere. I don’t have enough time to dance with everyone, and I can’t _not_ dance at my own party.” The mask is momentarily darkened by a frown. “And my father is expecting me to do well today. It’s only the third time my night hasn’t been entirely scripted, and there’s a lot at stake.”

“So you’re dancing with me?” I’m still not quite following the logic.

“Exactly. When there’s no good options, choose not to make a choice. You’re about my age, good looking, unknown, and a member of the event staff. By dancing with you, I’ve acquired an appealing partner who will look good in the papers. Someone I’ve never met, that no one here has ever met, so no one’s got any dirt on you. And I’m doing charity by graciously allowing the common folk to enjoy my presence.” The mask breaks for just a second, revealing a flash of what I think might be discomfort. “I mean no offence, of course. One must be aware of all the potential ramifications of their actions.”

I take a moment to digest this. It’s clever, at least the way Elspeth tells it. Choose not to make a choice, huh. Can’t say I’ve never used that particular out. She’s scanning me again, scrutinizing me for something. A reaction, I figure.

“I’m offended that you took me away from the shrimp platter.”

Elspeth laughs, a single short note that I’m pretty sure is the only genuine thing I’ve heard from her. Especially if the hand that immediately leaves my shoulder and covers her mouth is any indication. The mask resets quickly, but not until after I’ve realized that the face beneath is so much more compelling.

“You’re funny.”

It’s a deadpan observation. A cover. She knows I’ve seen her, and she’s trying to push past it as fast as possible. I give her my best lopsided smile.

“Thanks, I try.”

My dubious wink doesn’t quite break the mask, but it does earn me an exasperated sigh. I twirl her again. I’m starting to get a feel for dancing, even if she’s still directing my every step.

“That sounds like a lot of pressure. Here I was thinking all you posh people just lounged about and ordered servants around all day”

She gives a low chuckle at that, and there’s something behind it I can’t quite discern.

“Maybe those of us who aren’t heirs to a political empire and majority stakeholders in every major corporate monopoly. I’ve been training my entire life for this.”

“Parties where you can’t dance with whoever you want?”

“Parties where every step I take is a move on an elaborate chessboard.” She leads me through an elaborate series of spins. “And I never said I don’t want to dance with you.”

That throws me a little. Don’t dwell on it, Archimedes. You still have a job to do.

“I’ve never had a head for chess. I prefer cards. No long game, no strategies. Just gotta play them as they’re dealt.”

A mischievous smile creeps across Elspeth’s lips.

“My father doesn’t approve of games of chance.”

“That’s a shame. I bet you’d be amazing at poker.”

That earns me another laugh, although the mask stays intact this time.

“Miss Desantis, one might be so inclined as to say you’re flirting.”

“Would one, Miss Bartholomew?”

“You can call me El, if you want.”

We spin once more, and then she pulls me close and whispers into my ear.

“Smile, Pyro. You’re on camera.”

She moves back to her previous distance, and I catch the glint off the paparazzo’s camera over her shoulder. Well, shit. I say a mental apology to Rita for the extra work she’s going to have to do scrubbing those images off the net after we get out of here.

“Oh, great.” I flash my best approximation of a winning smile at the camera, straining slightly as I notice that there are at least three more. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“Forgot to mention it. They just become background noise after a lifetime of dealing with the paparazzi.” Elspeth looks genuinely apologetic, which could mean anything. “They’ll want to have a long, _long_ , probing chat with you after this.”

“No can do, El. I’m due back at the firing line, I’ll need to leave right after this song.”

Thank God for reasonable excuses.

“They won’t like that.”

“Too bad, my extremely delicate and dangerous job of handling literal explosives is more important than their stories.” That one’s not technically a lie. “Which reminds me: I’ve already done you a favour, so I figure you owe me one.”

“Fair. State your terms.”

She guides me through some more spins and I see more cameras trying to capture a better angle. I lower my voice slightly, although the earpieces Rita made should interfere with anyone trying to record near me.

“I know how paparazzi are. It is of utmost importance that they do _not_ come anywhere near our fallout zone. It’s all clearly marked and the stage manager has the relevant paperwork. We’ve got some security but not enough to cover the entire line, and we mostly have to rely on people knowing what’s good for them. You’ve got pull here, you can make sure they keep away, yeah?”

The bit about the fallout zone is true enough, even if it’s not my real reason for wanting the paparazzi to keep away. El frowns slightly, looking pensive for a moment, then flashes a grin and nods.

“Of course. Don’t even worry about it, I’ve got it covered.” The music begins to draw to a close. “You’d best get moving darling, I’d hate to make you late.”

“Right, yeah. Thanks.”

I drop El’s hand unceremoniously and give her a quick nod, then turn to leave. Before I do, though, I turn back.

“Hey, um, El... Enjoy the show.”

That mischievous smile from earlier crosses her face once more as she grabs my arm, pulls me close, and kisses me on the cheek.

“You’d better make it a show worth enjoying.” she whispers into my ear before letting go.

El turns and strides towards the flock of paparazzi, not even looking back at me. I stand there for a moment, stunned, until my earpiece crackles once more.

“Hey, Nix! Stop dawdling and get back here, you know we’re on a time limit, right?”

I nod, even though Juno can’t see me from where he is, and walk with carefully measured paces to the door. The second I’m out of the ballroom, out of sight of all the fancy-people guests, I’m sprinting towards the small outbuilding in the back field where the control room has been set up.

* * *

My tie is off before I even get into the control room, and the jacket follows suit immediately. Juno hands me a bag and I swap my shiny-yet-useless fancy shoes for a pair of sturdy steel toes. I peel off the black silk gloves I’d been wearing, and the cotton underneath that had kept the cybernetics in my left hand from snagging the fabric, and replace them with my much preferred mechanic’s work gloves. Pete swaps out his ridiculous heels with a pair of flat boots and we stuff all of our discarded clothes back in the bag.

I haul the bag over my shoulder, Pete grabs the other bag, and Juno sets a timer on his watch. We have twenty-three minutes to get to the vault, get Rita into the local security system, and prep the charges. We need to be synced perfectly with the show going on upstairs, or else we’ll be found out immediately.

The tunnel from this shack to the main building isn’t on the publicly available blueprints, which should give us an edge in our escape later. And hopefully throw suspicion off the legitimate pyrotechnicians actually running the show. Although if that doesn’t work, Rita will take care of it. Buddy isn’t fond of collateral damage, especially when it’s someone innocent going down for our crimes.

We make it inside the main building. Juno pulls a panel off of a wall, revealing the circuitry that runs through the entire house. I attach the bug Rita gave us, and a few seconds later she’s into the system. We keep moving. Through corridors, down stairs. Dodging guards, though there’s fewer and fewer of them as we make our way down.

Finally, we reach the vault. Juno and Pete take down the guards standing outside of it, and I plant a few more of Rita’s bugs. While she’s hacking, me and Pete get to setting the charges. I mark out where they need to go on the wall beside the massive door with chalk, then we work together and quickly assemble the explosives, set the detonators, and place them. Juno checks his timer and calls out from where he’s watching the corridor:

“We’re on schedule. Here!”

He chucks the watch towards us and I catch it with my good hand. I set the remote detonators and Pete, Juno and I move around the bend in the corridor. We all cover our ears and I stare at the timer, my finger hovering over the detonate button. The little red numbers tick down:

_7...6...5...4...3..._

My finger hits the button right at the timer hits zero. An explosion rings out from around the corner, echoed far above by the loud bangs of fireworks going off. Our timing was perfect. Now to get our prize and get out before anyone suspects a thing.

The vault door is completely off its hinges. There’s no alarm going off, Rita’s already taken care of that. Pete takes the case from the centre of the slightly smoking vault room, the thing we came here to find. The Blade, Buddy calls it. If I’m being honest I’m not entirely sure what it is, but she says we need it and that’s good enough for me.

* * *

We’re leaving the vault, just need to get out through those tunnels, into the sewer, then back out and onto the Carte Blanche and we’re home free.

Or not, as it turns out. Because standing in the corridor outside the shattered vault door, looking all the more gorgeous for the rubble surrounding her, is Elspeth Bartholomew.

My jaw drops when I see her. What the hell is she doing here? She’s supposed to be outside at that fancy VIP bar area I’d seen earlier schmoozing with other posh people and watching the pretty lights. Not down here, in the fucking _basement_ , where we just happen to be robbing her father-and, by association, her.

“Hey there, Pyro.”

She’s not smiling now, and somehow that makes this whole situation worse. I should be worried about the three of us getting sent to jail for the rest of the duration of the universe, but here I am feeling like shit cause she’s upset and it’s my fault.

“Shit.” It’s the only thing I can think to say.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” says Pete. At least one of us is eloquent.

“Neither are you.”

The world feels like it’s moving too slowly. I haven’t had a proper panic attack in ages, but I haven’t forgotten the feeling and I’m pretty sure there’s one coming on right now.

“You were thorough, I’ll give you that. Did a damn good job sneaking your way in here. Probably would’ve been fine anywhere else.”

“And what, pray tell, is different about here?”

Pete is doing a good job holding her attention, at least I think he is. Juno looks at me and nods his head to the left. I know what he’s trying to tell me. I go left, he goes right. We get her before she gets us.

“Thing is,” Elspeth Bartholomew continues, “This is a Bartholomew party. And Bartholomews start building profiles on all of the event staff a year in advance of any major event. There’s no way you could have known that, of course. The information is only stored locally. For security reasons.”

Yeah, that’ll do it, huh. Caught by a rich old man’s paranoia. Of course.

“I was looking over those profiles,” she goes on, “and do you know what I found out?”

“That we’re the best pyrotechnicians?” I reply, edging slightly along the left wall.

She fixes me in a stare so cold I think I feel my heart stop.

“No. I found a file on Ariadne Desantis. That _lovely_ little lady I had such a _charming_ conversation with. Or at least I thought I did.”

I swallow the urge to apologize and beg forgiveness, and instead flash an awkward half-smile.

“I can’t make a case for plastic surgery, can I?”

El’s stare could cut steel.

“I don’t know who you are, but you are _not_ the crew we hired. Now step away from the vault before I call security on the three of...”

She trails off, confused. Because while she’d been watching me, Pete had done what Pete does best, and disappeared. She falters, gaze rapidly shifting between myself and Juno, and takes an involuntary step back. Into Pete’s arms.

It’s over in seconds. Pete has Elspeth restrained, and Juno is digging through our supplies bag for something to tie her up with. She struggles vainly for a moment before realizing it won’t help.

“You-you can’t do this!”

“I’m afraid, Miss Bartholomew, that we already have.” says Pete. Always the charmer. “Now I suggest you sit tight, and we’ll be making our way out in a moment.”

Elspeth looks at me again. This time, there’s a different expression on her face. My eyebrows furrow as I realize what it is. The mask is gone now, completely gone. And she’s staring at me with desperation.

“Hold up a sec.” I gesture to Pete and Juno, then address Elspeth. “If your dad finds out you let us escape, you’ll be in the shit, won’t you?”

She opens her mouth as if to speak, then closes it and just nods.

“Maybe we can work out a deal.” I wave to cut off the protest that Juno is already starting. “According to the cameras, we were never here. We can make it so you were never here either. Maybe you just left the show to go to the washroom, maybe changed your dress, and came back like everything was fine, and there’s no evidence to say otherwise?”

She’s giving me that scrutinizing look again.

“Would you actually do that?”

It’s a fair question. I tap my earpiece.

“Hey, um, R. Did you get all that?”

It crackles in response.

“Yup! That ain’t a problem, I can get it all done before ya even make it to the sewers.”

“Thanks.” I address Elspeth again. “We can do that, and we will. If you agree to the terms. We leave now, with what we came here to get. You go back to your party. We don’t get arrested, you don’t get implicated. Win-win.”

I reach out my hand, and Pete lets go of El’s arms. She looks conflicted for a moment, then shakes it.

“You’ve got a deal.”

El moves away from Pete and brushes the dust from her dress. It doesn’t look ruined, but it could certainly use a wash just from being in this smoky, rubble-filled hallway. She stands up a little straighter, and when she looks at me I can see the mask sliding back into place. She turns to head back upstairs, but before she leaves she turns back towards me.

“Hey, Pyro, we’d both be better off if we never saw each other again, wouldn’t we.”

It’s not a question, but I nod in response anyway. Her mask is carefully neutral, and i can see the tiniest hint of fear in her eyes. Of what, though, I can’t tell.

“Right. Good luck, then.”

And then Elspeth Bartholomew walked out of my life the same way she had entered it, quietly and suddenly. She was just gone, and I was left feeling like I had lost something I couldn’t quite quantify.

Juno pats me gently on the back, drawing my attention back to the present moment.

“Come on, let’s get going. We’ve lost time and we need to get out of here and back to the ship.”

I give him a nod and sling my bag back over my shoulder, following Pete and Juno back the way we came. Into the service tunnels, down into the sewer, all the way along the long walk back to the manhole closest to where the ship had been hidden.

* * *

I couldn’t get her out of my head. Couldn’t stop thinking about her face. Not the one she wore in front of all those fancy guests, in that chessboard of a world she lived in. But the one underneath. The one I’d seen when she laughed. The one she’d shown me when she was afraid. Maybe if things were different. Maybe one day things _would_ different, when we finish this job. Maybe I could come back and find her again. And maybe she’d smile at me, with her real smile, and we’d dance again.


End file.
